


Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us (tell me we'll never get used to it)

by Atlanta_Black



Series: Harry Potter One-shots [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Dark Mark ceremony, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Getting Together, I think I finally succeeded in writing fluff, Kit Approved, M/M, No Beta, No Smut, Regulus is a good friend, Romantic Fluff, Smut Tease, he just doesn't realize that his friend is thirsty as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: Why are you so set on this? On him?How do you explain that it feels less like inevitability and more like a softly spoken request? Like, someone breathing words into the hollow spaces between your bones and filling the emptiness inside of you. As if the universe knew exactly what he was missing and had it sent it to him in the form of a man so feared even his followers hesitated to speak his name.A gift for Rab <3 Without you I never would have learned to love this character.
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr./Voldemort, Regulus Black & Bartemius Crouch Jr.
Series: Harry Potter One-shots [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875151
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us (tell me we'll never get used to it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rabenschnabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenschnabel/gifts).



_"We have not touched the stars,_

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_Nor are we forgiven, which brings us back_

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_To the hero's shoulders and the_

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_Gentleness that comes,_

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_Not from the absence of violence,_

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_But despite the abundance of it."_

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_-Richard Siken_

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* * *

  


_He wants this._ He does, he does, he does. 

Regulus thinks that he’s fooling himself. Keeps watching him with worried eyes and tense shoulders. Keeps staring at him like he’ll change his mind and run.

He will not. Not from this. Not from him.

Barty isn’t sure of many things in his life. Not really, not anymore. But he is sure of this. Is sure of the man standing in front of them, feet bare and only noticeable if you’re kneeling on the ground.

Is sure of this in the same way he’s sure of Regulus’s friendship. Is sure of his Father’s hatred. Sure in the same way that he knows, if he only asked, Regulus would run with him. It’s a heady type of knowledge to know he has that kind of power, a power even Regulus’s brother didn’t have. Although, perhaps it’s more accurate to say, he knows this in the same way Regulus knows that he’ll never ask. Would never put him in that position.

But he could. _He could, he could, he could._

He could but he won’t. Just like he could have run from this but he didn’t. Wouldn’t.

He can almost feel The Dark Lord’s eyes on him. Can almost feel the way he stares at him, gaze assessing and physically heavy in a way that lays on the surface of his skin. He’s proud of the way he sits, completely still, hands steady in his lap. The boy next to him is shaking but his own hands are steady. His breathing calm. His heart racing in his chest with anticipation and _need._

There had been one day, when they were still in Hogwarts, where Regulus had stared at Barty and asked _why? Why are you set on this? On him?_

He hadn’t known how to answer at the time. Hadn’t known how to put the tangle of emotions that lived in his chest into words. How do you explain that it feels less like inevitability and more like a softly spoken request? Like, someone breathing words into the hollow spaces between your bones and filling the emptiness inside of you. As if the universe knew exactly what he was missing and had it sent it to him in the form of a man so feared even his followers hesitated to speak his name.

 _You have a choice. You’re not like me. You could choose different. You don’t have to follow me into this mess._ Regulus always sounded so broken, so hopeless, when he spoke about taking the mark. He _wanted_ this but he does often find himself wishing that he could give his friend another choice. Wishes that there were more choices.

How was it fair that their choices were so few and not one of them a truly one hundred percent perfect fit. Well… he supposes that for some people the choices were a perfect fit. He is a prime example of that. But it did seem as if for the vast majority, they would appreciate a different choice all together.

His hands are steady in his lap.

This doesn’t change when the first boy in the line screams, a long drawn out sound that seems to linger in the stones even after he’s stopped. It doesn’t change after the second boy starts sobbing, begging for the pain to stop. His hands stay steady - _even_ when Regulus lets out a scream, there and gone in the space it takes Barty to blink. He knows that scream, knows the way Regulus’s face will look, the scream high pitched and caught in the back of his throat. But still, not even then do his hands shake.

He clasps his hands together, fingertips pressed into palms and they stay steady. He is not scared. He’s scared of many things. But not of this. Not of him.

He wonders if it’s possible to die from anticipation. The Dark Lord is finally at the boy next to him and if he glances sideways, he can see bare feet peeking out from under long, soft looking robes. Can see long, thin fingers curled around a wand that is digging into the other boy’s arm. Wants to rip the boys arm away and put his there instead.

The boy next to him falls silent, crumpled on the floor, hands shaking.

Barty’s hands are not shaking. His breathing is not unsteady. His heart is trying to race out of his chest and lay itself at his Lords feet. He thinks perhaps he would carve his heart out with his bare hands if asked.

His arm is already in the air, turned upwards, sleeve slipped down, before his Lord even finishes moving the few inches left. _It doesn’t do to appear eager._ Regulus had whispered to him before they came in but Merlin, he is eager. Is so eager that he thinks he may have a heart attack from wanting it so badly. And besides, is it not better to appear eager than to appear scared and spineless? Is it not better to want this with his whole being than be dragged here kicking and screaming?

The first touch of cold fingers to his skin steals the breath from his lungs and he has to remind himself to breathe. He is determined to sink into his Lord’s magic, to truly appreciate the beauty of it and he cannot do that if he is breathless and screaming.

The fingers grip his arm harshly, fingernails digging in and there’s a moment where all he does is breathe, his entire focus narrowed down to the touch of his Lord’s fingers against his skin and a scent that he can’t quite place but that feels like coming home. A scent that already smells more familiar to him than his own home ever had.

If he believed in fate he would say that the man in front of him is his fate. As it is, he still believes that his purpose in life is to serve him.

The moment drags on long enough that he does finally begin to wonder if something is wrong. He’s positive that he hadn’t waited this long to start with the others. His hands still don’t shake.

“Look at me.”

The words wash over him, sink into his skin, cool and welcome. He looks up, no hesitation, hands steady, breathing calm. His chest is so tight that he’s not sure his heart is even beating at all. _His eyes are red. So fucking red it looks like someone spilled the sunset into his eyes._ One eyebrow raises slowly, head tilting slightly to the left, mouth twitching with an emotion Barty can’t name.

The fingers on his arm are suddenly curled around his arm in what feels more like a caress than a warning.

“I do believe you will do just fine.” Voldemort murmurs, voice so low that Barty isn’t sure if even he was meant to hear.

He swallows, focuses on his breathing, lets the brightness of his Lord’s eyes center him. This time when his Lord’s lips quirk he’s positive it’s amusement. It has belatedly dawned on him that he’s staring into the eyes of someone who is known for their talent in legilimency.

He doesn’t care. He has nothing to hide. Will never have anything to hide.

_This is a lie but it is not a lie if you don’t acknowledge the truth even to yourself._

He doesn’t look away. A wand comes up to press against his arm and he does not look away. He can dimly hear Reglus screaming at him in the back of his mind but he hasn’t been told to look away and so he doesn’t. Wants to soak in every minute of his Lords eyes on him, fully focused on all that he is.

He hasn’t been told to look away. Perhaps this should alarm him but all it does is send pleasure rushing down his spine. Leaves him feeling buzzed and heady with his Lord’s a tangible presence on his skin.

He expects it to hurt. For all that he is determined to enjoy it, to bask in it, he still expects it to hurt. But his hands stay steady and the magic that washes over him feels like spring rain and ocean air. Feels like being cleansed and remade. Melded into something new, something pure. Leaves him gasping for air around the feeling of completeness and belonging.

His Lord, Voldemort, reaches out and delicately places one finger under his chin when his head starts to dip with the heaviness of the magic still surrounding him. He doesn’t look away, no matter how badly his eyes want to close, he does not look away.

His hands do not shake but he has to clench them into fists, curl his fingers into his robes to stop himself from reaching out. He _wants. He wants. He wants. He does not know what he wants but Merlin it’s burning him._

He’s not sure how long he kneels there, skin buzzing, limbs heavy, his Lord’s eyes unerringly locked on his. Briefly finds it within himself to hope that the devotion keeping his limbs still doesn’t unsettle his Lord. The finger under his chin presses up harder at that thought and he takes it as a no. It all reaches a crescendo suddenly, the magic twisting around his own, intertwining itself so thoroughly within him that for a moment he’s no longer sure where he starts and his Lord begins. As if from a distance he hears himself whimper, a high pitched noise that causes his Lord’s pupils to expand, eclipsing the dark red. He finds himself viciously hoping that the rest of the recruits think that the whimper was from pain. Does not want anyone else to have even an inkling of an idea of what this has done to him. Wants to take this moment and stuff it behind his heart where only he can find it.

The moment ends. Ends with him still kneeling, gasping for breath around the loss of skin against skin. Around the loss of his Lord’s magic surrounding him. He still has not looked away. Doesn’t remember how to tear his eyes away from the dark promise in his Lord’s eyes.

This time a smirk tugs at his Lord’s lips for a solid five seconds before fingers reach up to tangle themselves in his hair, roughly yanking his head back down and he has to swallow the groan fighting at his lips. His limbs are trembling, he’s not sure when they started but he’s left kneeling there, hands _finally_ shaking, breathing erratic, heart beating out a steady tempo in his chest.

He’s not sure how long he kneels there. His mind is a hazy, blurred mess that keeps playing back the entire encounter on repeat. Pausing on each touch of skin and rewinding itself multiple times to the point where his Lord’s pupils expanded, desire clear in his eyes. He keeps sinking into that moment, letting it wash its way over him. Letting the knowledge that he is wanted settle into the creases of his brain. Lets himself believe it. Lets himself revel in it.

After an undefinable amount of time a finger sets itself under his chin and lifts his head. He blinks, still feeling hazy, as if the lines of his self are blurring their way towards the man now crouched in front of him. He has to blink several times before his mind registers that the room is now empty except for him and his Lord.

He feels himself leaning inestimably closer, limbs shaking now with the force of him holding himself back. His Lord tilts his head, eyeing him with something approaching bemusement, hair curling softly around his ears and he feels a rush of awe run through him. Catches on the upturn of his Lord’s lips and the freckle near the corner of his eye that’s nearly hidden by his hair. Tucks these observations away with the rest of his memory of this day.

“I can not decide if you’re unprecedentedly devoted to me or if you’ve somehow fooled yourself into believing that you’re in love with me.” Voldemort muses, voice low and calm.

Barty stares back, heartbeat thundering in his ears. Isn’t sure if an answer is wanted. Isn’t sure if he can give one. Still has trouble articulating the feelings tangled up in his chest.

“Yes, I want an answer you ridiculous boy.” Voldemort says, exasperation coating the words, eyes rolled heavenward and the display is so _normal_ that Barty’s mind blanks out.

He opens his mouth, licks his lips, gets distracted by his Lord’s eyes following the motion. Sits there for a while, mouth parted, trying to fathom speaking and actually making sense.

 _“I was made for you.”_ The words rip out of his throat and he sounds fucking wrecked, sounds like he’s been screaming even though barely a sound has escaped his mouth the entire night.

Voldemort’s lips press together, eyes narrowing in thought. The finger under his chin slips down, settling briefly in the hollow of his throat, before his entire hand carefully circles Barty’s throat.

“You really believe that don’t you.” He says, less a question and more a baffled statement. His eyes keep flicking from the hand pressed against Barty’s throat to Barty’s mouth still parted to Barty’s eyes. “What would you let me do to you?” He asks lowly, head dipping a fraction of an inch closer to Barty’s.

“Anything.” He mumbles, eyes fixed on his Lord’s lips, on the curve of them as they form a smirk. “I am yours to do with you as you will. Yours for whatever you wish.” He keeps mumbling promises, feeling as if he’s going to pass out from anticipation, from want.

His other hand comes up suddenly to grip the hair at the base of Barty’s neck. Voldemort curls his fingers, hair twisting around each one, fingertips pressed firmly against Barty’s skull. Then without warning he yanks backwards and this time… this time Barty does nothing to hold in the groan that comes fleeing out of his mouth.

“I do believe that I will take you up on all those lovely offers you just laid before me.” Voldemort murmurs, eyes dark and face suddenly even closer to Barty’s own.

He can feel his eyes trying to slip shut, his brain lost in a haze of pleasure.

 _Why are you so set on this? Set on him?_ Regulus’s voice drifts through his head as if from a thousand miles away, a thousand lifetimes ago.

Voldemort hold his head steady and presses closer, licks his lips and bites delicately at Barty’s jaw. He whimpers, hears his robe rip from where he has it twisted beneath his clenched fingers.

_Why are you so set on this?_

Voldemort’s lips settle on his, no time wasted on gentleness, tongue licking its way into his mouth and he shudders, presses eagerly into the kiss. Into the hand still gripping tight at his hair and the other hand still gently holding his neck. Presses eagerly into everything he is being given.

 _How could I ever want anything else?_ He finds himself thinking. _How could I ever crave anything other than his gaze on me and his hands on my skin._

He carefully unclenches his hands and brings one up to clutch at Voldemort’s robes. Let’s the other settle hesitantly on Voldemort’s knee. He growls into Barty’s mouth, pressing impossibly closer and biting harshly on his bottom lip.

 _Why are you so set on this?_ Regulus asks him, eyes begging for him to reconsider. He smiles, bright and blinding. Wishes he could erase the worry from Regulus’s eyes. _I was made for this. For him. I can feel him in my bones and I haven’t even yet set eyes on him. There will never be any turning back for me. Not from him._

He smiles into the kiss, startling Voldemort into pulling back, pupils blown wide and mouth twisted in confusion. He takes in the expression of happiness on Barty’s face, presses against Barty’s mind for answers and huffs in response to whatever thought is currently racing through Barty’s mind.

“You are going to be great fun to unravel.” He murmurs, leaning back, the rest of the words getting lost against Barty’s lips. “I’m going to take great pleasure in taking you apart until there are no more thoughts left in that racing mind of yours.”

_Why are you set on this? On him?_

Because all he asks for is my devotion and that is not much to ask for at all.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time ever writing this character and this pairing so I hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> It's also I think the only time I've ever managed to keep it mostly fluffy. Very little angst managed to find it's way into this fic!
> 
> Now with a companion fic told from Vee's POV: [_i have tasted many names_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25080895)


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